


Bad Risks

by manic_intent



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Guide!Santino, M/M, That Sentinel/Guide AU with a bit of a sci-fi twist, sentinel!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “Right identifiers,” he said. “It’s a Turing Sentinel.”“I know it’s a Sentinel.” Santino said testily. “I want to know what’s special about this one.”“Can’t tell without a deep scan,” Cassian said. “Not equipped for that.”Santino looked back into the pod. According to their sources, the occupant was meant to be the new frontline in the ongoing state war against the Campania clans, but he looked no different from any other Sentinel Santino had seen. Created by the notoriously secretive Turing Company, Sentinels were just one of many different types of synthetics, and the rarest. Weapons-grade synths.“So what do you want to do?” Santino asked Gianna. “Dispose of it? With fire?”





	Bad Risks

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 5: Sentinel AU
> 
> I’m going to assume the OP meant the Sentinel/Guide trope, ahaha. I’ve always made up stuff for this trope when I’ve written it (once for Cherik and once for Rinch), because I’m not really familiar with the series it was based on. I only know that it’s kinda like A/B/O, but people imprint on each other. I don’t think I’ve seen a more sci fi take on this trope yet, so here it is… ;3
> 
>  **Note:** The M rating for this fic is for violence. The rest is T-rated.

“I’m a little disappointed,” Santino said, rapping his knuckles against the glass lid of the Sentinel pod. “ _This_ is what the magistrates think will be the end of the System?” 

Gianna pressed her lips into a thin line, arms folded over her coat. They were in the belly of one of the many unregistered warehouses owned by their clan in the outskirts of Naples, where counterfeit goods were usually funnelled through, created en-masse in crowded sweatshops for the international market. A space in the walls of crates had been cleared for the pod. The hijacked truck it had been on was already being broken down for parts, its bones never to be traced. She glanced over her shoulder. Her own Sentinel was in a corner, watching the exits. As she beckoned, Cassian strode over, giving the pod a cursory glance. 

“Right identifiers,” he said. “It’s a Turing Sentinel.”

“I know it’s a Sentinel.” Santino said testily. “I want to know what’s special about this one.” 

“Can’t tell without a deep scan,” Cassian said. “Not equipped for that.” 

Santino looked back into the pod. According to their sources, the occupant was meant to be the new frontline in the ongoing state war against the Campania clans, but he looked no different from any other Sentinel Santino had seen. Created by the notoriously secretive Turing Company, Sentinels were just one of many different types of synthetics, and the rarest. Weapons-grade synths. 

“So what do you want to do?” Santino asked Gianna. “Dispose of it? With fire?” 

Gianna ignored him. She had brought up a console over the glass face of the pod with a flick of her wrist, though the sync that bypassed the bio-lock was probably Cassian’s work by remote. Vital statics flicked up, mostly medical. A basic operating system had already been downloaded and installed. Grim-looking bastard. The deactivated synth was pale and tall and broad-shouldered, his lanky dark hair grown to his shoulders. There was an uneven beard and sideburns, even wrinkles set into the skin. The latest Sentinel versions were indistinguishable from human at a cursory glance. 

“No DNA marker,” Gianna said, pointing at the blank. “He hasn’t yet been assigned a Guide.” 

True. Disposing of a non-imprinted Sentinel, even one created by the anti-Mafia, was probably a waste. “I suppose Ares could use more helper monkeys.” 

Gianna frowned at him. “Ares? No. Your consigliere is loyal, sure. But I think it’s best to keep it in the family.”

Santino stared. “No.”

“Come on. Getting used to Cassian was difficult at first, but now I’m rather fond of him.”

“We don’t know anything about this new experimental Sentinel. Why they only made one. Or where it was being taken, or why it was in transit without an imprint. Maybe it’s defective.” 

“Maybe you’re being paranoid. Don’t be difficult.” 

“I’m being _cautious_ ,” Santino began, and froze when Gianna grabbed his wrist. “Gianna…” 

“Cassian, do the honours, will you?” Gianna waited until the console changed into a pale square and tried tugging Santino’s palm over to it. When he resisted, she scowled at him. “Come on, brother.” 

“This is not a good idea.” 

“We’re at war. Not just against the anti-Mafia. Against others in the System. Against Cosa Nostra, 'Ndràngheta… the various bratvas and more. We’ve always been at war. We need the soldiers.” 

“It might be a trap. Or worse.” 

“Considering the lengths we had to go through to acquire this pod, I doubt it. And if it is, then we’ll destroy it. After what happened to the Liccardi… I have Cassian, but I’m worried about you.”

“That’s not fair,” Santino said, but he relented. The tactical raid on the Liccardi had turned ugly. With the anti-Mafia squads becoming increasingly militarised, they hadn’t bothered with the ‘alive’ part of ‘dead or alive’. Even with the women. Grudgingly, Santino pressed his palm to the pale square, grimacing as there was a faint sting. The square pulsed, then turned green. “Now what?”

“Activation’s usually in an hour. We’ll have him moved to the villa.”

“To the villa? No. Not until we’re sure he’s safe.” 

“The port, then.” The D’Antonios maintained a sector of the port of Naples through a maze of trust funds, alliances and sheer muscle, a necessary opening in the bottleneck of goods to Europe and the world. It was also a convenient way to dispose of unwanted… items. Shipping the remains away to be dumped at sea. 

The port was busy even at this hour, but they got through unchallenged save by their own security. Under one of the administrative buildings was a set of concrete rooms. Data was processed above ground, people were processed below ground. The pod was set down in one of the cells and left to complete its cycle. Santino surveyed the port with his sister and wished he was back in New York. There was a certain dirty stink to Naples, sunk into its bones, worse now that the war with the anti-Mafia had escalated. But Naples was in their blood, even the ugliest parts of it. They would not be cowed.

When the pod cycled to release procedures, they were called back below ground. The Sentinel was sitting up in his pod, blinking. He glanced at them when they came close to the bars of the cell with an unsettling, inhuman stillness. Something _was_ wrong. Slowly, the Sentinel got out of the pod, jerkily, stumbling until he found his balance, hydraulics working with central processing to learn and repurpose data. He was still in the gray skintight suit of a fresh Sentinel, something that would help feed further processing data to the brain banks for an hour until the Sentinel was fully active. It glowed with pale lines of light up the Sentinel’s legs and arms. 

“What’s your name?” Santino asked. Each generation of Sentinels had a unit identifier, a nod to their purpose. Cassian’s was ‘Common’, from a generation where the Turing Corporation had attempted mass production for armies. 

“Wick,” the Sentinel said. Santino blinked. That meant nothing to him. “You’re my Guide,” he added, tilting his head. “That’s not in my Directive.” 

“What isn’t?” Maybe the imprint hadn’t worked.

“Having a Guide.” 

“They made a Sentinel that doesn’t need a Guide?” Santino said, surprised. Beside him, Gianna stiffened. “That’s against the Munich Agreement.” 

“An autonomous, military-grade synthetic. Now I think I see.” Gianna looked grim. “They no longer want to use surgical strikes against us. They want to loose a bomb. You’re right,” she said reluctantly, turning to Santino. “We should have disposed of the pod. See if you can deactivate him on command. Hopefully things don’t have to get messy.”

Santino stared at the Sentinel, who looked back at him, calm and solemn. He had strange dark eyes that reminded Santino not unkindly of a dog’s. Completely focused. Trusting, because he had not yet learned not to trust. “Having a Guide isn’t in your Directive. But now that you have one, what does it mean?”

“Sentinels obey their Guides.” 

“So what will you do for me?”

The Sentinel’s answer was instant. “What do you want me to do?” 

“All right,” Santino told Gianna. “I think I’ll give Wick here a trial period.” 

“What?” Gianna said, shocked. “I said you were right. He was made not to need a Guide. That means he’s dangerous. It could have been a trap all along.” 

“Wasn’t Cosimo working on a new device? A powerful mini EMP? Remote activation?”

“That doesn’t deactivate a Sentinel. Only stuns them for a while.” 

“Not if we affix it over the central processor.” 

Gianna narrowed her eyes. “All right,” she conceded. “If he’ll let us install that, fine. A trial period. How long?”

“Until he proves to me that he can be useful.” Santino looked back into the cell. Again that calm, doglike stare in return. Santino was the first to look away, gesturing at one of their retainers. “Find him some clothes. And get Cosimo.”

“Are you going to give him a name?” Gianna said, arms folded tightly over her chest. The Sentinel’s stillness was unsettling her. It was patently incomplete. The last few generations of synthetics had been made to look closer and closer to human. They ‘breathed’, had close-to-natural facial expressions, and reacted believably to environmental stimuli. With Wick it looked as though they’d stopped trying.

“He doesn’t need a name.”

“It’s customary.” 

Santino sighed. “I think he was made to be a ghost. No handler, no links to the police. So he deserves a ghost’s name, one with no meaning. John.” 

John tilted his head again, but said nothing. He was quiet as Cosimo arrived with the EMP, and submitted to having it affixed over his temple. It didn’t show under his hair. Once dressed in a spare shirt, pants and shoes, John looked somewhat closer to human, though at rest, something about him still unsettled the eye. He was too quiet.

“You’re still going to return to New York?” Gianna asked, on their way back to the villa. 

“The cares of an empire,” Santino said facetiously.

Gianna scowled. “I need you here.” 

“You don’t.” Their father may have left the family business to both his children, but as the older sibling, Gianna had been overseeing their interests in Naples since Santino had been in college, and the family lieutenants hadn’t ever forgotten that. Expanding to New York, in a way, had been about trying to escape from his sister’s shadow. 

She stared unhappily at him, shifting over to put her arms around his shoulders, ignoring his grumbling. “I think you like to take risks.”

“That’s part of business.”

“Bad risks.” 

“Stop worrying.” 

Gianna looked to the front of the car, where John was sitting in the passenger seat, watching traffic. Cassian was driving. “At least you have Ares,” she conceded. “She might keep you in line.”

“I’ll tell her about your vote of confidence.” Santino curled an arm around his sister. “You be careful. The new government was voted in because they stoked public fear over the mafia.” 

Gianna pulled a face. “The toxic waste fiasco didn’t help.”

“Or the murder of that journalist on the street. Along with his escort. And his wife and child.”

“I _told_ Valentino not to overplay his hand.” Gianna exhaled. She sat back, strapping in. “We’re going to have to set an example. A public rebuke.” 

“On Valentino? That’d be trouble. He’s well liked by the others.” 

Gianna shook her head, smiling. Not for nothing had she earned the nickname _la tigre_ at the tender age of twenty-five, in a world where few women held enough power and influence to earn monikers. _Santino_ himself didn’t have one yet. “If we can’t control our own men we can’t provide certainty. Empire is about spinning a hundred plates, a thousand plates, all for profit. Let one spin out of sync and it will hit another plate, another plate, and then the carabinieri will be waiting.” 

“I know that.” 

“The carabinieri—” Gianna blinked as Santino tensed up, looking past her shoulder. 

A truck, closing in on the intersection, accelerating. It rammed into the sedan, the impact slapping his hearing into a dull ringing. The world spun, glass fragmenting. Gianna was openmouthed, her golden hair a cloud, jerked back against the seat. They were upside down. Stunned, Santino didn’t know how long he stayed suspended until he managed the presence of mind to unbuckle himself. He hit the ceiling of the car with a grunt, somehow managing to push open the door. Animal instinct made him crawl out, gasping, onto old cobblestones, dazed. 

Lying on his flank, he could see the truck with its crushed bumper slowed to a stop. The back door was open, carabinieri exchanging fire with retainers pinned behind convoy cars. And another car, speeding up, down the same intersection, heading right for Santino. He would have shut his eyes if he could, but death had always held for him a certain unblinking fascination. 

A heartbeat, another. John stepped in front of the car, braced for impact. 

The impact should have run the Sentinel over. Instead, the speeding car _crumpled_. John grunted, hands pressed against the bumper, only shifted back a few steps. He shook himself, like a dog shaking off a fly. Then he was at the driver’s seat, hauling out a dazed carabinieri, pulling a pistol from the holster. He fired once, shattering his skull, then through the car into the passenger seat. Blood blotted out the side window.

Hands curled over his shoulder. Santino twisted in instinctive panic, then relaxed when he recognised Cassian. Cassian helped him over behind the sedan, where Gianna lay still. Santino felt for a pulse, heart in his mouth. Alive. Steady. Just out for the count. He looked up, just in time to see John sprint towards the truck. The first surprised carabinieri got shot in the head, then John pounced on the next, bearing him down, rolling to use him to absorb fire. It was a dance with many partners. John was kinetic, his enemies too slow. 

The driver of the truck got out, raising a shotgun, only to stagger back against the cab of the truck. Cassian looked away from his target, gun still raised, tracking targets, but he wasn’t moving further than the sedan. With his Guide out of commission, Cassian would stay close and defend, standing his ground, a default setting. 

John hadn’t been given attack orders. 

It was over quickly. Santino came out from behind the sedan as John straightened up from his kills. Even the surviving retainers were wary, their hands still on their guns. Santino shook his head, and they relaxed. “We’ll take one of the cars,” Santino decided. “Keep driving to the villa. Call in the Cleaners, then find a way to follow.” He paused. “How _did_ they find us?” It had been an ambush, but a messy one. Opportunistic. Now the ambush site was a charnel ground of dead, stinking flesh and cordite.

John walked over to the dead driver of the truck, patting him down. He held up a phone. There was a map on it, and a blinking dot. “Tracking device?” Santino guessed. “On what?” 

“Signal’s faint.” John dropped the phone, and started to feel over his arm. He paused near the meat of the elbow of his left arm. 

Shit. “The impact of that car didn’t even scratch you,” Santino said, wary. “What the hell is your skin made of?”

“New type of weave. High impact absorption.” 

“Knife?” Santino said, doubtful, then he flinched as John calmly braced his arm against the flank of the truck and fired his pistol into flesh, near point blank. He dropped the gun and fished in the wound, pulling out a cratered device. On the phone, the red dot faded. 

What. The fuck.

“I… what…” Santino rubbed a hand over his face. “Never mind. Get in that car.” 

Cassian tensed as retainers came close to Gianna, which was a fine time to discover how deeply his sister’s underlying paranoia ran. Then he stared evenly at Santino when asked to carry Gianna. Fucking Sentinels. Which meant Santino had to do the work, grumbling as he carried his sister over to the vacated car. John was in the driver’s seat. Cassian settled into the front passenger seat, still running on default. 

“You can drive?” Santino asked, as he cradled his sister against him. John nodded. “Good. Follow the convoy car in front.”

#

Gianna woke up furious and had to be placated. They made plans into the early hours of the morning and Santino was exhausted when he dragged himself back to his chambers. He yelped when he found John waiting patiently in his private living quarters, sitting in an armchair. John got to his feet. No one had thought to give him a change of clothes. The shirt was ripped, as were the knees of his pants. Santino grimaced, opening the door to give instructions to the guard outside.

Sentinels didn’t need sleep, though they did power down to a sort of standby mode for a few hours at night, reactivating only when someone breached a perimeter. It was why Gianna kept Cassian close by at all times. And probably why someone had just directed John to wait in Santino’s chambers. 

Santino opened his mouth, about to instruct John to take a shower, then he hesitated. He _was_ curious. Did the impact of the car really have no effect? He beckoned at John, shrugging off his suit jacket in the bedroom, hanging it up and toeing off his shoes and socks. Then he jerked his head at the bathroom, rolling up his sleeves. John stayed quiet. He stripped down with a Sentinel’s clinical efficiency when told, knelt over shower tiles when directed. John’s designer had made him to pass for human in all respects, down to a surprisingly well-formed cock. 

“Do you feel pain?” Santino asked. John’s skin was unmarked, even his long-fingered hands. His hair was supple, very nearly human. 

“Not like you do.” 

“What do you mean?” Santino asked, pulling down the showerhead, the hose uncoiling. 

“Pain for a human is a warning signal. That something got damaged. Needs fixing. I have something similar, but less distracting.” 

“How’s your arm?” Santino made himself look. The bullet had gone clean through. There was a blackened mark, the skin speckled with gunpowder. 

John glanced up at him. “In ‘pain’. But the damage is non-essential. Mostly cosmetic.” 

“We can get it fixed.” Or so he hoped. Cosimo again, maybe. 

John said nothing. Maybe he felt no comment was needed. He did tense when the water came on, Santino belatedly turning it hot. Would John even notice the difference? Synthetic skin didn’t flush under the heat. Not for a Sentinel, anyway. That kind of make-seem was non-essential for something military-grade. John’s eyes flickered when Santino turned the water off and soaped his hair, fingers tickling lightly over the EMP. John's lips parted a little, then he arched to press against Santino’s touch when soap was rubbed over his shoulders. 

“Do you feel pleasure?” Santino asked, pitched lower, husky. 

“I don’t know.” 

“You feel something.” Santino soaped the long, lean curve of John’s unmarked back. “Do you like this? Want more of it?” 

John tensed again. He was thinking it over, his eyes unblinking. Finally, he said, “Yeah.” 

“That’s pleasure.” Santino smiled as John glanced up at him. “Also a warning signal.” 

“A warning for what?” 

“Addiction.” Santino trailed fingers lightly over the back of John’s neck. “Affection. Both are poisonous in different ways.” He washed off the soap, rinsing John down efficiently, setting the shower nozzle back in its bracket. John got out of the shower and sat on the edge of the tub when directed, watching Santino as he was dried down. “Does that work?” Santino asked, as he ruffled the towel over John’s hair. “Your cock.” 

“Not for waste disposal.”

“What about sex? Can it get hard?” Santino stroked a palm down John’s thigh. When John didn’t react, he took a curious grip of limp flesh. A little heavier than usual, but the skin was supple. Close to the real thing. Even the foreskin pulled back when tugged.

“If you want. Matter of hydraulics.”

Santino laughed, letting go. “They thought of everything with you.” 

“Some things got changed. I’ve reviewed the OS of previous Sentinel versions. Especially the Commons.”

“You could act without a kill order. I saw that.” 

John looked up at him, through a gap in the towel. “I thought it was necessary at the time.”

“Oh, it certainly was necessary. But the Commons wouldn’t have done something like that. You saw what happened to Cassian when my sister was unconscious.” 

“Okay.” John relaxed. “I thought you might get angry.” 

“And you wouldn’t want that?”

John didn’t hesitate. “No.” 

“So what other changes are there? Other than you being able to operate without a Guide.” 

“The other Sentinels. They need a Guide to give them orders, sure. But there’s something else. They make them _want_ to be good.”

“In the programming.”

“Yeah. It’s dialled up in some of the other synth-types. Especially the entertainment ones. A reward matrix. You do good, you feel good. It’s meant to be missing from my programming. Since I’m not made to work with a Guide. They dialled down other matrices. Empathy. Emotion.”

 _A bomb_ , Gianna had said. “Meant to be missing?” Santino repeated. 

“I don’t get the perk up. It’s something else.” John was frowning to himself. “It wasn’t part of my original Directive. Maybe things changed. After the imprint.” 

“What is it?” Santino asked, trying to sound gentle rather than morbidly curious. 

“What is the word? When you want someone to like you.” 

“Ah.” Santino set his palms on John’s knees, leaning in, smiling. “Longing. That’s very human of you. Are you sure some ‘matrices’ were dialled down?”

“Things are rewriting. I think. Because you’re here.” 

“Good.” Santino pressed a kiss on John’s mouth, gentle, lingering. John didn’t move, but Santino felt him tense and relax, his eyes flickering. Processing. “I do like you, John. You did well today. And I’ll keep taking care of you. If you take care of me.” 

John stared up at him, unblinking. “I want to.” It was the imprint talking, Santino decided, but pressed this close, it was so very human.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


End file.
